


keep me warm

by FaultyParagon



Series: Fair Game Weekend 2020 [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Clover Ebi-centric, Confessions, Cute Mittens, Domestic Fluff, Fair Game Weekend (RWBY), Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Outfits, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Qrow is weak to wearing nonsense from the girls, Rated for a Few Swears, Romance, fair game, fairgameweekend2020, whether it's attractive or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Clover thinks his new Huntsman partner is graceful, poised, and incredibly powerful.At least, until the first storms hit, and he spots a certain someone wearing the fuzziest mittens he has ever seen in his life.-aka Clover and Qrow are both clumsy and have cold hands. Written for Fair GameWeekend 2020 Day 1: Outfits/Confessions, using both prompts.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen & Ruby Rose & Yang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Fair Game Weekend 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932736
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59





	keep me warm

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Outfits/Confessions. Both prompts have been used.
> 
> The podfic is available, so listen along while you read if you like!  
> [Part 1](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/630884193068531712/podfic-for-part-%C2%BD-of-keep-me-warm-by) \- [Part 2](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/630884802171699200/podfic-for-part-22-of-keep-me-warm-by)

_Well. That’s unexpected._

His lips curl upward into a lazy smile, amusement fluttering within his heart. “Hey there.”

The figure standing before him freezes, hunched shoulders straightening at last, before that familiar, drawling voice growls out a response. “… _goddammit.”_

Clover smiles. Of all people to meet on his day off, he’s happy it’s Qrow.

* * *

The Kingdom of Atlas has three main seasons: a brief summer in which the air is crisp, the days are painfully long and bright, and blue skies never seem to fade; a long, cold winter where the rain and snow are light, but near-constant, leaving the world damp and cold in the midst of what feels like never-ending night; and finally, blizzard season.

Whenever the blizzards hit, there is no way for anyone to retain any of their dignity in Solitas. Each year, the storms come crashing through without warning, the tempests bringing howling winds and snow so cold it freezes people’s bones at the mere sight; not even the hearths at the heart of Mantle’s slums are ever enough to save its citizens from the painful, biting, blinding temperatures.

Clover is never bothered by blizzard season, though. Why would he be? He has long grown accustomed to the way he needs to layer up just a bit more, just as every other Solitas native who has walked the streets amongst the darkest storms. It is always a shame- he has never been a fan of wearing sleeves, but even he has to give in and throw on a proper sweater and winter coat when he wants to venture out into the world during those few ice-locked weeks each year. Thankfully, the rest of Mantle and much of Atlas is also accustomed to the devastating chill, meaning that life is relatively unimpeded overall even by the worst of the storms.

The rookies from Beacon and their feathery guardian are certainly not hardened for the winter, however; Clover is not surprised to have seen the children on his way out of Atlas Academy, spotting them huddled in one of the common lounges within the barracks watching films and trying to stay warm, for they are used to sunshine and warm breezes. Even Weiss Schnee seems to struggle with the chill, having clearly spent too much time in Sanus and Anima.

Unlike them, Clover exits with nothing more than two extra layers and his wallet, ready to go into Mantle. He has a few personal items he needs to pick up, and although the snow has begun to fall more heavily than ever, he is not concerned; his usual haunts will stay open no matter what.

Just as expected, he is able to find everything he needs with ease. Due to the heat lamps situated upon every street, the air in Mantle’s dark streets is warm enough to soften the barrage of ice and snow, letting it bounce off of Clover’s hood as he makes his way back to the airship docks. His nose is a little frozen, but he does not mind; he is almost back, and soon shall be able to indulge in a bit of downtime before work picks up again. Those reports aren’t going to write themselves, but he can afford to relax for a little while longer.

At least the Grimm also cease their attacks during the worst of the storms. Not even they can weather the whiteouts of Solitas.

While the citizens of Mantle do not fear blizzard season, the streets tend to be far emptier during these times, leaving Clover to his own devices as he makes his way back to the airship dock after his errands are complete. A bag of miscellaneous purchases hangs from his wrist, gloved hands tucked into the pockets from his leather jacket as he walks along, music playing in his ears drowning out the cacophony of precipitation landing upon his hood. It’s oddly soothing, walking alone in Mantle like this; while he shall always prefer the atmosphere of Atlas more, Mantle’s grungy, darker streets send pangs of nostalgia coursing through him. It’s homier than Atlas will ever be.

That is why Clover is more than surprised to see a familiar figure hunched over upon the street, a thick jacket and drawn-up hood nowhere near enough to hide the slant of his gait, the slouch of his shoulders, the speed of his steps. Clover blinks once, twice, recognition setting in as he watches the figure flail upon a patch of ice, nearly slipping if not for the fact that he manages to grab onto a nearby lamppost; there is no grace in his recovery, so unlike the way Clover has seen this man dance across battlefield after battlefield so beautifully time and time again.

_Well. That’s unexpected._

His lips curl upward into a lazy smile, amusement fluttering within his heart as he finally approaches the man. “Hey there.”

The figure standing before him freezes, hunched shoulders straightening at last, before that familiar, drawling voice growls out a response. “… _goddammit.”_

Clover smiles as Qrow turns around, a wave of warmth and affection washing over him. He had certainly not expected seeing his recent Huntsman partner down here, but he does not mind- in fact, he has found as of late that he never does quite mind seeing Qrow, no matter how tired or surly he feels at heart. The elder has this sincerity about him, after all- sincerely _clumsy,_ maybe, but sincere nonetheless- which Clover finds painfully refreshing.

The elder lets out the world’s heaviest sigh, lifting the lip of his hood with the largest, silliest mittens Clover has ever seen; a fluffy pompom on the fingertips, the image of a black and white dog stretched across the back. However, it is the same crimson which Clover has grown fond of over the past few weeks that peers back at him, a flush spreading across his nose and cheeks, contrasting perfectly with his normally gaunt colouring. Whether that flush comes from being caught on an off-day, or from the cold, Clover doesn’t know.

Either way, he realizes that Qrow’s ensuing pout is painfully sweet, removing years of age and fatigue from his face effortlessly.

Clearing his throat, Qrow ducks underneath a covering of a nearby storefront, pulling off his hood. “What’re you doing here?” Qrow mutters, sighing as if he has just been told they have a last minute mission assignment.

Clover says easily, “Just bought some things now that we have a few weeks off.”

Qrow raises a brow, confused. After Clover quickly explains what their next few weeks will look like, however, he sighs, slouching over yet again. “I guess that’s why the kiddos were so insistent,” he mutters, pushing damp strands back out of his eyes. “No wonder they kept bothering me this morning.”

Clover snorts, leaning back easily against brick. The cold immediately seeps through his coat, but he does not mind it. “Are you picking up things for your nieces?”

Qrow holds up a small bag of his own. Even through the plastic, he can see the amount of chocolate and candy and snacks will not be enough to satiate the rookies, if seeing one of their gaming tournaments a few weeks earlier has taught him anything. “Is that for them? You’re going to need to do more trips than that at this rate,” he comments.

The elder shakes his head, a sly grin of his own growing now that his embarrassment is fading away. “No, these are for me to eat in _front_ of them. Those brats get a salary. They can suffer like the rest of us now.”

Clover laughs in utter disbelief. “You’re really going to send them out in this weather to get their own treats?

“They should learn to cut down!” the elder protests. His voice softens as he adds, “And anyways, I’ve needed something to snack on lately as a distraction.”

Instantly, he picks up on the sorrow in Qrow’s voice. _A distraction from alcohol. Got it._

To lighten the air that suddenly hangs heavy over them both, though, he takes another look at the bag- at the mitten holding it, to be more precise. “Even after they went through the effort of buying you those cute mittens?”

Immediately, Qrow’s flustered blush is back. He moves to hide his hands behind his back, then quickly gives up, for the damage is already done; raising his hands so Clover can see, he explains, “It’s our corgi, back in Patch. They thought it would be funny to get these custom-made for me.”

“They were right.”

“Shut up, Clover,” Qrow bites instantly, but there is no venom in his words- merely fondness. He loves the antics of his nieces, and they both know it.

Clover reaches out, grabbing one of the pompoms which is supposed to be the dog’s tail. “What’s its name?” he asks, wiggling the fluffy end a little.

Qrow’s smile grows unbearable nostalgic. “Zwei. We adopted him when Ruby was lonely because Yang was going off to combat school soon.”

Clover opens his mouth to reply, but as a nearby store closes its doors, he jabs a thumb towards the airship docks instead. “Should we head home so you can harass your nieces?” he teases. “It’s getting late, and we shouldn’t be out here for too much longer.”

Qrow pulls his hood back up miserably, glaring up at the sky. “Gladly. I’d like to not leave the academy for the next few weeks. This weather is _awful._ ”

“Welcome to the Kingdom of Atlas,” Clover laughs, guiding Qrow along as they step back out into the storm.

The only reply he receives is, “No wonder you’ve all got poles up your asses; look at the shit you think is ‘normal’.”

Clover snorts, rolling his eyes. If anyone else had said that to him, he would’ve immediately confronted them, but he has grown used to Qrow’s bitter take on the Atlesian way of life. It’s almost endearing now, in its own weird way.

Before he can respond, however, Qrow begins to lose his balance again, so Clover simply grabs onto one of Qrow’s giant, oversized corgi mittens and bites back the laughter which wells up involuntarily with the movement. Despite it clearly being far too large for the elder’s coarse hands, Clover finds that it’s comfortable holding onto the elder, so he does not let go, even when Qrow manages to steady himself. “Well, at least you’re clearly dressed properly,” he comments airily through his chuckles. “Give it a little while, and maybe you’ll be able to withstand the snow.”

The glare he receives only makes him smile more, his normally-pleasant expression crumbling to something far more lively than normal. “Why aren’t _you_ dressed for the weather?” Qrow asks, sniffling as they cross an empty street.

“I _am,_ though. When you’re born and raised here, you get used to it.”

Qrow yelps as his feet lose their place again, clutching onto Clover’s hand to remain steady as they cross another icy patch. Bitterly, he mutters, “Well, sorry we’re not all Atlesian brats. Come to Vale sometime and enjoy your slow heat death.”

Clover bites his tongue- there’s no need to tell Qrow that he’s more than comfortable with Vale’s weather, having gone there a few years earlier on vacation, although he would quite like to see Patch. He has heard that the island is beautiful. _Maybe Qrow can show me around one day,_ he thinks idly.

Their path has led them to the docks at last, giving them a chance to finally earn some respite from the deluge underneath one of the protective coverings above their stop; Clover shrugs off his hood, glancing up at the sky. It is still absolutely impossible to see the state of affairs above thanks to the thick snowfall reflecting the lights of Mantle, along with the bulk of Atlas blocking the clouds, but he knows that the sky is still nowhere to be seen anyways.

He cannot wait for that first sunny day after blizzard season- but more than that, he cannot wait to see Qrow’s reaction to it. There is nothing quite as breathtaking as looking into the distance and seeing the buildup of ice and snow glitter like starlight upon the fields surrounding Mantle’s walls.

For now, however, he simply replies, “You’re from Patch, right?”

Qrow nods, finally letting go of Clover’s hand. To Clover’s surprise, he almost feels a little sad once those giant mittens have extricated themselves from his hold; he says nothing, however, as the elder takes a seat on a nearby bench. “Yeah, how did you know?”

He joins the elder, placing his bag between them, resisting the urge to grab hold of soft mittens again. “I read your file when you came here.”

Qrow is unamused by this reveal. “Jimmy keeps files on us?”

With a sheepish smile, Clover says, “We needed to figure out everyone’s strengths and weaknesses so we could place everyone appropriately.”

Some of the warmth in Qrow’s face fades away. “Of course you would,” he spits, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of being monitored. “No sense of privacy here.”

“You say that like _being prepared_ is a bad thing.”

“Playing the surveillance game is never a good thing. You could always just… y’know, _ask_ what you want to know. It’s not like we have-“ and he pauses, face darkening a little bit, “-much to hide.”

Clover raises a brow, tucking his hands into his pockets. It’s not as warm as when he held onto Qrow, though. “Should I be worried?”

“Worry about yourself, kid.”

“You can say that all you want,” Clover muses aloud, “but I’ll always worry about you.”

When Qrow does not reply, he glances over, only to feel himself freeze up. Qrow stares back at him wide-eyed, crimson burning almost mahogany with flecks of amber in the reflected light of the station, a surprised pout on his lips. Clover feels himself flush, face heating up far more than he’d like as he realizes just how _soft_ his voice had been with that phrase.

Clearing his throat, he attempts a professional smile. “You’re my partner, you know.”

Then, oddly enough, Qrow simply throws his head back and laughs, his lilting, deep voice echoing in the otherwise-empty station. “I guess you’re not so bad, Mr. Ace Operative,” he teases, a wry grin on his face.

Finally, an airship arrives, giving them some proper respite from the chill. The journey back to Atlas Academy is a quiet one in the end, but the ride back is pleasant, warm; with the pilot blasting the heater as he flies through the snowstorm nearly-blind, Qrow is able to take off his hood properly and lean back, relishing in the warmth with a soft smile on his face. Clover watches the elder throughout this journey carefully.

Since when had he _meant_ those words- that he’d always worry about the elder- so deeply?

By the time they are back in the halls of Atlas, they are both drenched and exhausted after the journey down. Qrow is shivering beyond measure, although Clover still feels fairly well; he gently tells the elder, “Make sure you go get changed soon- wouldn’t want you getting sick before our mock-vacation.”

Qrow rolls his eyes, but he shivers too hard to protest, so the two of them separate in the Huntsmen’s wing to return to their own quarters. Clover is able to warm up fairly quickly- there’s nothing that a quick shower and dry clothes won’t fix, after all- but the entire process is impeded by thoughts of Qrow. After all, the rookies would still be occupied with finishing up their final reports from their previous missions, meaning that Qrow would be alone.

…would the elder benefit from a distraction?

With that thought in mind, he finds his way down to the mess hall, grabbing two large to-go cups of hot chocolate from the kind staff. Then, as carefully as he can, he carries them back up to the barracks, knocking on the closed door of his destination with his elbow.

Qrow opens it up in a few moments, surprise painting his features as he peers back at Clover through damp hair, a towel slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t hesitate to invite the younger man into his quarters, gesturing towards the small coffee table and couch set up by the window in the other-wise barren room. The sound of the next-door laundry room rumbles through the walls, likely from Qrow’s drying attire from his adventure down to Mantle; it is through that whirring noise that Qrow finally murmurs, “What’re you doing here?”

Clover lifts up the cups as he takes a seat next to Qrow. “I thought you could do with a little distraction, like you said. How about a drink?”

Instantly, Qrow’s face hardens, the word _drink_ clearly enough to set off alarm bells for the elder. “Is that funny to you or-“

“It’s hot chocolate.” Steam rises through the lids of the two cups lazily, curling in the air despite heat emanating from each side of the room, the convection heaters nowhere near enough to remove Solitas’ chill completely from Atlesian halls. Clover sets one in front of the elder, grinning as Qrow sends him the most deadpan look he can muster. “You said you were cold outside, and you wanted something to distract yourself,” he reminds Qrow gently. “Now drink up.”

Qrow picks up the cup slowly, removing the lid to look into the pool of milk and chocolate without a word. For a long time, he simply stares, refusing to move; he is clearly lost in thought, his eyes flicking between the cup to Clover, back and forth, as if silently trying to parse what to say.

“You’re… really not smooth, you know,” he murmurs at last, bringing the cup up to his lips. Still, the way crimson curves happily betrays that even though he teases, Qrow doesn’t mind Clover’s clumsiness.

He pounces on that observation, and before he can doubt himself, Clover reaches out and lays one hand overtop of Qrow’s, his touch still burning thanks to the heat of the hot cocoa he had carried all the way here. “You’re drinking it anyways.” Clover grins, squeezing Qrow’s hand gently, feeling callused, cold skin warm up thanks to his touch. “Doesn’t that mean I’m smooth enough for you, at least?”

“Shut up,” Qrow snorts, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You know you’re glad I found you down there.”

“Mhm,” Qrow hums, rolling his eyes, his guard let down once again at last.

Clover does not pull away, his own drink in one hand, leaving his other overtop of Qrow’s. He wants to know how long he can stay here, how long Qrow shall tolerate his presence; and when Qrow shifts to sit closer to Clover, removing the space between them, moving to intertwine his fingers with Clover’s after a moment’s hesitation, Clover knows that these tiny actions have been enough.

For what, he doesn’t know. He is curious to find out, though.

So, they drink their cocoa. It’s too sweet, as per usual for the mess hall, but it’s something warm and decadent in this icy time; and although there is nothing binding them, no contract to be signed, no feelings to be professed… the simple act of sitting and linking fingers, side by side, sipping on cocoa and watching the world turn into a flurry of ice and snow outside their windows, marks a tiny change in their relationship. Once these weeks have passed, they shall be back to work slaying the Grimm and preparing for Amity; for now, however, it’s simply enough to be here.

And once they’re back on the battlefield, Clover knows that Qrow’s reaction to the sunshine shall be even more splendid for having lived through the storms of Solitas.

His thigh is warm pressed up against Qrow’s, and his hand has never been hotter. It’s a pleasant change from what Clover is used to- overwhelming, but pleasant nonetheless. Perhaps he can get used to heat like this, too. At least Qrow doesn’t need to wear those ridiculous mittens with Clover around. His hand is plenty warm when held by Clover.

**_-fin-_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


End file.
